literature

2:37 AM, Sep 19, 2022

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TerranTechnocrat's avatar
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Literature Text

You step past the threshold of differential pressure and humidity into the greenery of the gardens. It all throngs out as vines and shoots, condensing into choking underbrush, cut by paths of floor paneling left barely discernible by the low maintenance of the gardeners.


Tiny animals startle you, flitting to and fro over the air, through the leaves, and beneath the sub-ceiling canopy. Moisture droplets form and condense, falling on your skin, adding however intangibly to the continual pattering around as you contemplate each cautious step.


The low purr of organic noise and shifting streams of stellar light that periodically stab through tinted windows assail your senses, while the dampness feels like it threatens to weld your suit-cloth to your skin. You decide that you don't like the humidity.


Stamped to the far wall of the first green chamber, visible in clear machined type kept free of moss or overhangs, you see one of the gardeners' typical sayings: "To tend to and cultivate the garden. To maintain mankind in freedom and joy."


The mysticism. The unpredictable shapes. Innumerable crawling, creeping things. Much of it is harmless. Yet something in your cells assures you that it cannot be trusted, unlike the corridors' geometry or a person's eyes. Yet something always calls you back to the green space.

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